


Roots of Mythology

by literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Magic, Wizards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 21:28:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte/pseuds/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't the end every time you fail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roots of Mythology

You figure, if you're going to die, you might as well go with a fight. And the best way you have ever fought was with magic.

You've always faked your pride, and it seems as though you're going to have to give it up along with your existence. Your name is Cronus Ampora and you've always been despised and angry and pathetic and this just might be justice for the universe to have you hidden in a trunk crying like a wrigger, purple tears on your grungy white shirt and snot on your jacket sleeves. With shaking hands, you grip the silver wand and press it to your lips, imagining a surge of power brushing against you. There's nothing. You muffle a sob.

In this position - knees pressed to your chin, feet jutting out gracelessly, neck bent and face down - you are uncomfortable and absurdly upset. Any troll with common sense would keep quiet with a rainbow drinker on their trail. Oh, but you are Cronus Ampora, and you are crying in a library with a wand in your hand, a spellbook in your lap, and your death looming close by.

Maybe if you swish it back and forth, flicker it with the turn of your wrist, move it like the wind. The same wind rushing past the velvet curtains and lighting up the book shelves in this lonely place where you grew up.

Nothing. Your breath hitches in your throat. You swish and flick the stick for more disappointment.

There's the sound of light footsteps in the background. Roaming through the aisles. Tasting your scent. The pages of the book in your lap crush together as you tense up.

Porrim walks with feet of water as she stalks after you, her skin blazing alive and her eyes illuminated lanterns. Her dress moves with her legs, but you can hear the swish of the fabric. How did you get yourself into this mess? Admittedly, you do have a habit of flirting with strangers, but how were you to know that inviting an alt like her to your hive would result in a sick game of hide and seek? You just wanted to have dinner with a nice lady. Not to _be_ dinner for a not so nice lady.

She halts.

"Where are you, dear? The date was going so well."

You shiver and gulp, a bead of sweat falling from your forehead. You bite down on your lips to keep back the hiccups but yelp when your teeth puncture the skin.

She continues.

Your bloodpumper thumps in your ears, and the yearning to push open the lid and straight up jump out a window aches through your muscles. Instead, you lock your watery eyes on the spellbook and mumble the words you see, unsure of the outcome. You can't tell where Porrim is anymore, and you don't dare imagine how close she is for fear of tempting your bladder.

The wand responds with silence; the frustration, you swear, is going to kill you. What are you forgetting? You must be forgetting some phrase, or ingredient, maybe some movement...

A book falls from a shelf. You jolt and knock your head against the trunk lid, swearing loudly. Porrim chuckles softly; your heart drops. The rainbow drinker dances towards where you are hiding, not even trying to conceal her footsteps now.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no. Think, Cronus, think. Magic isn't doing shit right now. Magic hasn't done shit for sweeps. _You_ haven't done shit for sweeps. Screw it all.

You shove open the lid and roll out onto the floor, your knees scraping against the cold wood. You flop over and stare right into the deadly eyes of Porrim Maryam. Shrieking, you jump up, trip, and throw yourself at the nearest window. Glass cracks, curtains flutter - and the floor leaps away from you.

You drop the magic manual but clutch to the wand as you fall. A hand snatches for you, and a hiss sounds out when she fails. Maryam slinks back into the halls of your hive as you fall over fifty feet to the fountain below.

Guess this is it, you think. You're going to be impaled on a naked cherub statue on a rusty fountain. Wonderful. Hopefully it doesn't mess up your hair.

Or...you squeeze your eyes shut and try to imagine a different place, another memory. You should have long enough to change this dream bubble before you double die on a marble cherub's trident. You cling to the first thing that comes to mind and...

...the ground kicks the breath out of your lungs as your body slams against a solid surface. You blink away the spots in your vision and groan. A sigh of relief escapes you, and you rise from the marble (marble?) floor to look around. The sight that greets you makes you gasp.

You're back in a classroom. Warthog! The academy of magic! It appears as though you've fallen into a memory of your old potions class. 

You go to shove your wand in your jacket pocket but find it missing. Quickly, you look down and realize you're in your old uniform. Considering the last time you even touched a wand was way back before you even knew any human slang, you don't know how to describe this. Bittersweet? A slap in the face? A daymare? A miracle? Whatever it is, at least you're safe and...alone.

Cracking open the classroom door, you call out, but no one greets you back. The empty stairways that lead to endless depths of Warthog's castle echo back your own hollow voice. You prop open the door with a chair and go back to investigating the room.

There's a desk placed at the front of the class where the teacher would sit down in a huff and scream when his ass hit a nail. You chuckle at the thought and take your seat in the large, velvet chair, your coattails fluttering behind you.

"Now, kids, please flip to page 5,500 and look at the vague summoning diagram for a few minutes while I pick my nose," you joke to yourself in a stuffy voice. You pretend to glare over the heads of invisible students before noticing the papers stuffed in the drawers of the desk you're seated at. You pull one drawer open and files practically spill out. You shove your hands inside the documents and pull out a scroll with symbols all over it.

You tap the paper with your wand and circle the shapes with its tip. You try saying the words scribbled on the wrinkled paper. You let out an exasperated sigh when, surprisingly enough, nothing happens; the wand drops onto the desk with a clatter.

Tired fingers rub through your hair and you wipe your eyes with your knuckles. It would probably be a good idea to head back to the main bubble now. A feeling of shame hits you as you look down at your clothing, and you sneer. _Magic._ It's always just been a cheap trick.

But you would love to remember when you loved it. The wand felt so good in your hand, the power and respect you once had...You'd love to hold that pride again, love to grasp that strength once more...

It seems like it would be such a waste to just walk out, however. Scooting back the chair, you stand and walk over to the closet behind the teacher's desk. The pantry of potions holds bottles of slimy and black substances you swear you hear gurgling coming from. The light switch does nothing when you flick it. You ignore the damp smell as you reach around for a mop. Your hands find a broom in the darkness and you pull it out, shaking off the webs. Just as dusty and gross as you fondly remember Warthog.

You close your eyes and dream up a radio. It flickers on to a jazz station and you get to work cleaning up the place. The room fills with swearing ("Crud!" "Jeepers, this is complete junk!" "What a bummer, the handle broke!") as you do your work. Your arms ache after sweeping the webs in the corners of the ceiling, and you drop to the floor with a tired sigh when you finish.

Well. You gaze around the classroom. Banners droop across the walls, familiar reds and greens of the Warthog classes. The colors are more noticeable on the students' seats, and moonlight from the windows you opened reveals the scratches and indents on the desks. As a younger man, you remember doodling notes on scraps of paper and flinging it a friend's way. A thin smile crosses your lips.

After a moment of reminiscing, you get yourself up off the floor and lumber back towards the closet. You set the broom inside, but, as you shut the door, a blue light catches your eyes. You look behind you to make sure there's no rainbow drinkers in the doorway, then shut yourself inside the small space.

The pale blue light radiates from a ceremoniously decorated cup in the corner. You pick up the basin and ogle at the contents. Streams of smoky blue fluid circle around inside, and it comes to you - it's a goblet of ghosts. Your potions teacher would definitely be into artifacts like these.

You stir the liquid with a finger, and the color sticks to your gray skin when you pull away. The handle is shaped for hands ten times the size of yours, and the goblet is round enough to fit your head. You dig through what you remember of Warthog, trying to recall the purpose of a goblet of ghosts. You think it was meant to store the words of the dead. Either that, or dead troll's memories.

You lower your face to the goblet and sniff it. The water doesn't smell exactly repulsive, but you're curious enough to wonder what would happen if you tried to use the object. Tentatively, you flick a tongue to the surface and...mistake. You pull back in disgust. Definitely not designed to be used like that.

However, the strange goop looks so tempting. You mull over how a goblet of ghosts would work in the afterlife, since everyone happens to be dead or visiting through sleep. Perhaps if you...

....you could just...

...you're sure this is how it's done...

You dip your face into the goblet and the world is stripped away from around you.

-

-

GA : Cronus, don't you think it's a 8it l8 to pressure me to help you cheat?

AC: oh, cmon, i just need some help studying.

AC : help a guy at his vwits end.

GA : You're always at your wit's end.

AC : school is vwery stressful, aranea.

GA : Yes, 8ut that doesn't excuse your constant misuse of my 8.

AC : vwhat vwas that?

GA : That was meant to 8e pronounced as aid, sorry.

AC : anyvway. friends help each other out, dont they?

GA : That is true, 8ut it is inexcusa8ly l8. You should have asked earlier if you were that desper8! 8esides, if the academy was aware of the outside sources you used to help with your work, they surely would not 8e pleased that a top student was communic8ing with a student from a lower caste school for help with, ahem, "studying."

AC : please, i just forgot the initiating incantations. nobodys gonna kick me out of class for that.

GA : Really? That is such simple material, Cronus.

AC : i knowv that. dont embarrass me further.

AC : its like sometimes vwhen you forget to spell vwords you learned before you could read.

AC : and youre like, crud. vwhat vwas it? i knowv this like the back of my hand.

AC : but you just cant remember it anymore.

GA : Understanda8le, 8ut nonetheless displeasing to have to deal with constantly from you.

AC : so are you gonna help me out or leavwe me hanging?

GA : Of course I'll help you.

AC : thanks, doll. youre a life savwer.

GA : Anyway, what were you needing again?

AC : the initiating incantation. i cant start this spell vwithout vwaking up my vwand. nothing vwill vwork if its stagnant.

GA : Ah, yes. You have your wand with you, correct?

AC : no, my lusus ate it. course i havwe it.

AC : and please dont take so long vwith this, vwe both need sleep sometime.

GA : Thanks for the concern. Glad to know you somewhat care.

GA : Let me 8egin.

GA : You and I 8oth know that magic is more than waving your wand and saying a few funny words, 8ut magic is still a complex branch of existence and mystery that cannot 8e descri8ed as simply "awake" or "asleep." Wands are only as powerful and awake (aw8?) as the wizard, witch, or mage that uses them. Untrained or unfocused magicians produce wild, uncontrolla8le magic that is usually asleep, or invisi8le, even in contact with the medium of wands. In the presence of o8jects or su8jects of magical properties and regards, an untrained individual may 8e a8le to conduct simple spells with the help of metaphysical 8elief - truth, hope, faith, all that mushy nonsense surrounding the lore of magic - 8ut trained scholars of magic, such as yourself, conduct live, awake magic. Such is the 8asic 8ackground information of the initi8ing incant8ion required to wake up a wand that has 8een put into a stagnant stage, usually after a period of misuse or disconnection with the mage. Have you 8een napping too long, Cronus, or did you Mituna steal your wand?

GA : Cronus Ampora, you're not even paying attention to your memories. Did you get the process of the initi8ion spell or not? 8eforus to Ampora!

AC : i got it, i got it. sheesh, givwe a guy a break vwhen he has to vwatch his husktop knovwing about fivwe paragraphs of textbook quotes are about to spam his trollian.

GA : Did I lose you there?

AC : i got it. a couple sentences vwould havwe sufficed, but thanks, serket. youre the 8om8. 

GA : ::::) Thank you, Ampora. I really am the 8om8, especially when it comes to theory.

AC : meen is the 8om8 too. hey, ivwe been noticing the tvwo of you havwe been getting a little close. has she said anything about me?

GA : Are you 8eing serious or condescending?

AC : lovingly mocking.

GA : You learned it from the empress herself. In all seriousness, however, how did you lose connection with your wand? We 8oth may 8e in our first year 8ut this is just sad.

AC : babe, you knowv as vwell as i do vwho vwants to break my vwand. i mumble all the time around mituna so he thinks im trying to enchant him. zz:/ 

GA : Someday you two are going to get each other hurt with all this - frankly - 8ar8aric nonsense.

AC : he can deal vwith it, vwith all his freaky mind stuff. besides, i dont see anyone else complaining about bravwling.

GA : That freaky mind stuff is the same thing your magic is made of, you know.

AC : yeah, yeah.

-

-

You're thrown away from the goblet and stumble backwards into a heap. The goblet of ghosts starts to fall, but you leap forward and catch it before it can spill. You slump against the door, the basin in your arms, panting in wondrous shock. The music on the radio fades into a slow song without vocals.

Honestly, you don't know what Aranea was talking about. But you know what the words she said implied. Something clicks in your head, and you fumble around for your wand where you tucked it in your pants. You pull it up and stare in awe at the design. There's no majestic creatures and valiant heroes marked on it like the paintings of a palace, but there's shapes in its surface that make you think of casting spells for your friends when you returned every other season from Warthog, squaring off against Mituna and ending up in the sand laughing and wrestling, meeting the brave and resistant Latula who could never handle being culled and trying to show off to her, promising in Kankri's hive that they would never ever reveal his colorful secret and the look on his face when everyone shook on it.

The night Meenah disappeared, the restless empire letting you go with one interrogation when they took a look at your status as a rising mariner, trying to cling to your happiness when worry and stress took over, giving up on Mituna when he couldn't come over to see you practice your spells anymore, waiting for the group's leader to return, the disenchantment with the magic that couldn't put a smile on anyone's face anymore. Meenah returned, but she was different, a little more rude, a little more demanding, a little less patient with cheap tricks meant to please, and the game was rough for you all, especially a leader who couldn't keep everyone safe all at once, and you had to forget about incantations and goblets when everyone was falling apart over imps breaking into their hives. You forgot about magic.

_You forgot about magic._

You roll the wand around in your palm, holding back tears. You don't feel so detestable and angry and pathetic anymore. The wand lets off an eerie, lavender glow in your hand, lighting up your face. You hold out the wand; a strand of purple drips from the end, floating off to form a box and vanishing in blue smoke.

Your name is Cronus Ampora, and you remember what it means to be a magician. 


End file.
